Frozen Fauna
by Silverwinds1313
Summary: Being cowardly in the zombie apocalypse is like a deer leading a group of hunters to the herd. Dangerous, stupid, and bound to end with death. An addition to the team makes them the deer and the zombies the hunters. Safe? I think not, but it makes life hella interesting. - Female OC, simply because what's the fun in having all guys?
1. Bang

**Silver's Thoughts: Okay, so this is technically my second NZ fic, but I never did much with my first, so I'm gonna just say this is my first. Please read the AN at the end before you review. All translations will be there. Thanks! =D**

Bleak streets lined with broken and chipped walls, covered in rubble and littered with abandoned cars. Piles of Berlin's soldiers festering in the afternoon sun grew larger and more numerous farther along the road, perhaps an indication of life in the area. Sure enough, ahead on the left was a building with boarded windows and blockaded doors. With a bit of readjusting, the room was enterable.

Several years ago, the place probably would have been stunning, with a crystal chandelier hanging high above the curved stairways leading upward. Long scarlet banners hung on the walls and strewn over the handrails, boldly displaying a black swastika. Crimson suede love seats and leather armchairs placed generously around the room. Cardinal carpets rolled out on top of the steps accented with gold threads, and red curtains festooned about as if the place were a circus. Filled with people of importance, it probably would have felt like a zoo, too.

But now, smeared with blood and covered with shell casings, the place was a wasteland. The lights on the walls clung to their foundations by electrical wires, flickering pitifully. A door was laying on ones of the stairways, adorning it with shattered glass. The tiled floor smashed and covered with gunpowder and soot. Furniture strewn about, missing most of their stuffing, revealing the springs and wood within them. The whole place smelled of death and blackpowder.

Climbing the stairs on the right, the sickly yellow wallpaper held something odd. A white chalk outline of a rifle placed there innocently. It went ignored. To the left, the wall, and the handrail to suit it, bulged out and came back in a few feet later. Further down, a boarded-up doorway looked into an empty room. To the right, double doors were swung open into an area that looked like a mix between a waiting place for the restrooms – which were down a thin hallway in the right corner of the room – and a balcony to watch the theater.

A large sign hung on the wall in the center of the room above a pile of boxes. The sign looked to be an outline of the theater with labels written in … English? Again, odd, as this was the heart of the Third Reich. In each room was a bulb, only one of which was shining – the one in the upper left corner. It shone a soft green, easily visible in the dimly lit theater.

A wider hallway led into an attached room. In the hall were metal … things pointing downward . They were all connected by wiring into a red box and lever on the wall. The red box resembled a fire alarm switch. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous.

Within the room was an architectural hole in the floor surrounded by barbed wired coated handrails. The gap was about four by seven feet and served no purpose more than to look nice. Across from that was another blockaded half-door. To the right, five paintings sat rather blandly on the wall.

Each portrait was framed in carved wood painted gold, though most of the paint had peeled away. The first picture was faded beyond recognition, leaving a discolored blob. The second was of a fine-looking man that appeared to be about early thirty's. His blonde hair was cropped short, and his blue eyes and firm frown spoke of determination. He had a strong brow and jaw line with wide-set shoulders. Everything about him seemed to offer protection.

The third portrait had a man about the same age as the other. He was wearing a hat that covered most of his head, save his face. On the forehead of said hat was a red star with indiscernible symbols within it. When the portrait was new, it likely would have been clearer to the eye, but age and being left without care let it fade. But, by any guess, it was a hammer and sickle - a Soviet's hood made to withstand harsh winters. The man had a large nose and his cheeks hinted at his being well fed. He was wearing the blankest of expressions and his brown eyes held no emotion. Even the picture gave the impression of a killer.

The next was an oriental man, perhaps a little younger than the other two, sitting straight backed and prideful. His black hair was shaved down to stubble and a small mustache was painted delicately under his nose. The look in his eyes gave the presumption of his alertness and the will to fight.

The last man was quite obviously an authority figure. Aside from the fact that the painting itself was larger, he was finely dressed in military uniform with several badges pinned on. He must have been quite a bit older than the others – late forties maybe. The white patches in his dark-chocolate hair added an aged look, but he showed little sign of weariness or wrinkles. His gaunt face looked a bit irritated and displeased, as if he had better things to do than sit for an oil painter. He probably did, too, his cold calculating gaze was haunting even through the painting.

The oil painter must have been adept and with an eye for detail, but even so, only the last picture seemed complete. The other three looked as if they had been painted from photographs, missing the essences of the subject.

It had taken about forty-five seconds to complete the inspection of the paintings.

There had been two people in the room for thirty.

~…~…

**Silver's Thoughts: Aaaaand that's the end of chapter one! Nah, just kidding. Just thought it'd be dramatic, lol.**

…~…~

The cocking of a pistol froze the intruder in place.

"Tread not on the property of the honorable." A voice spoke in clear English.

It took a moment for everything to process, but the trespasser dropped, kneeling and speaking rapidly. "_Je suis __désolé__! Ne me tuez pas! J'vais besoin d'un endroit pour se reposer entre les morts forestiere. Je vais partir vous voulez, juste ne pas me tuer!_" A moment of silence passed. "I no zpeak ze Eenglish goot?"

After another moment, boot treads made their way to the kneeling person.

A jolt went through the person, fearing for their life. "_S'il vous __plait! Bitte!_ Please!" The begging went unanswered . Unexpectedly, the Frenchman was lifted off the ground by a rough grasp and was face-to-face with the oriental man from the portrait. A hesitant glance between them confirmed that. "Iz you? Vhat iz you name?"

"Masaki, Takeo." Takeo took a close look at the Frenchman. From behind it had been hard to tell with the chopped hair, but this was definitely a woman.

Her auburn hair was cut very short, but each lock was a slightly different length, likely cut off with a knife. She had bright emerald eyes, full of desperation and hope. She bore several scars on her face, the most prominent of which started on the left side of her face, in her hairline, and traveled down across her forehead. It seemed to miss her eyes and nose, but continued down her cheek and jaw. Her grey T-shirt was old – torn, and botched with unknown stains. The blue jeans she wore were in the same condition as her shirt, a couple sizes too big and filled with holes. Her shoes looked too small and were coming apart and the seams from overuse.

"Identify yourself." Takeo demanded as he guided her forward with the barrel of his gun. He had decided it would be best if the group chose what to do with the woman instead of leaving the decision to himself.

"I do not understand?" Her French accent was very thick, but not impossible to comprehend.

"What is your name? Your age?" he clarified, not impatiently.

"My name iz Vera Annoit," she paused, "I am twenty-four years old." She sounded uncertain of her age, possibly because of her poor English.

They arrived at the foyer, the way Takeo had just come. The foyer was a large, circular room that, much like the lobby, had two sets of curved stairs, except these two curled downward. The flags were everywhere – a bit overdone – and the same carpets were rolled down the stairs. The ceiling had large holes in it, letting some natural light into the windowless room. The west side of the room was flat, holding a table and barricaded door before descending into stairs. The right immediately became doors.

Below, three more people sat. One was behind the bar, rummaging through the wooden cabinets, the second was sitting on a barstool, and the third, perched on one of the three tables supporting a turret. Each were men from the paintings.

"Yo, Tak, come check this out. It's …" The man on the table chose this time to look at the two descending the stairs, "awesome …" he finished lamely.

"Um, bonjour," She gave a small, awkward smile. The other two looked over at the new voice. All of them looked a little shocked, whether it was because another person was here or, more likely, because that person was a woman, was left unknown. Vera could practically smell the testosterone in the air and while she could claim innocence, she was not ignorant. Her grandfather didn't particularly like talking about it, but she'd heard stories about men during the first World War. To break the silence she asked "Vhat iz yoour name?" nodding to the man nearest her and Takeo.

"Tank Dempsey, United States Marine Corps! The one and only! That there is Richtofen, the world's biggest freak," Tank introduced the man on the barstool who said nothing to her, but snapped at the Marine.

"Vatch it American!"

Dempsey only laughed. "And that's Nikolai." He motioned to the man with the hat behind the bar.

"_Privet, Frantsuz_," was all he said before he went back to his rummaging.

"_Ravi de vous rencountrer." _She smiled. Richtofen was the one from the larger portrait, Nikolai was obviously the Soviet, and Dempsey was from the one beside the faded picture. It was easy to tell now what the painter had missed. He missed the American's brashness, the Russian's disregard toward life, Takeo's aggressiveness, and even Richtofen had something not there in the portrait. That "something" was hard to point out exactly. It was sure to show itself sometime. "My name iz Vera Annoit."

Cautiously, she turned back to Takeo. She gave him a look with a bit of fear and hope. She glanced from him to the pistol still pointed at her, then back to him. "I am goot? I have noting." She held out her empty hands in a gesture of peace.

He did not lower his weapon.

He made eye contact over her shoulder. Richtofen spoke, "She cannot stay here."

**Silver's Thoughts: Yeah! Woo! Man, this looked so much longer on notebook paper… I'm going to hope for four to six reviews. That would be amazing. ^^**

**Translations: (Note, all translations were done with Google Translate.)**

_**French: **__Je suis __désolé__! Ne me tuez pas! J'vais besoin d'un endroit pour se reposer entre les morts forestiere. Je vais partir vous voulez, juste ne pas me tue_r_!_ – I'm sorry! Don't kill me! I needed a place to rest from the lumbering dead. I'll leave if you want, just don't kill me!

_S'il vous __plait! – _Please!

_Bonjour - _Hello

_Ravi de vous rencountrer _– nice to meet you.

_**German:**__ Bitte! – _Please!

_**Russian: **__Privet, Frantsuz. –_ Hello, Frenchie.

**So, before I get any flames, I want everyone to know that there are some pretty specific reasons I decided to make Vera the way she is. Later on we'll get some back-story on her which will explain why she, a Frenchman, is here in Berlin, Germany. It'll make sense, I promise. I have a relationship chart that I've made and not everyone is gonna be happy about it, but no one ever is, so… There are reasons for every decision I've made in the chart, so if you have a complaint about what's happening, please think through the reasons for disliking it before you voice it. **

**I think that's it. Any review is welcome, complaints, flames, criticism, praise, ideas, questions. Anything would be great, really. **

**Oh, and I'm not making any promises on update times. If I update, I update. If I don't, I don't. I'll try to get a chapter up at least once every week and a half.**

**Stay strong!**


	2. Language

Vera turned back around as an indignant Marine barked, "Why the hell not?"

Richtofen crossed his arms, "At best she'll slow us down, or else get us all killed."

"Slow us down from what, exactly? Some hare-brained scheme to take over the world?" Dempsey hopped off the table to face the German directly.

"You know not what you talk about, American." The slighter man took up the same position.

"I would if you just tell me!" He gestured harshly, trying to make his point.

Vera shifted her weight nervously, having not been able to understand their words. She felt the situation was akin to a standoff between two trained fighting hounds. Somewhere behind the counter, a disgruntled Soviet complained. "Shut up. Nikolai has massive headache, ugh..."

This seemed to shake a little of the tension off, as Richtofen, though still glaring, sat back down at his barstool. "Your puny mind has set us off topic," and the subject was diverted.

Dempsey returned the glare, not accepting defeat, but spun on his heel toward Vera. "Can you shoot?" he demanded.

She looked at him, unsettled and immeasurably confused. "I..."

The blonde took two strides forward and snatched the pistol from Takeo. The Frenchman flinched as he slapped it into her hands.

"Vhat zhe hell are you doing? Do you _vant_ to get us all killed?" Richtofen made a move to claim the gun before being stopped by Dempsey.

"Does she really look like she's about to shoot anyone?" Sure enough, she was holding the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. How she'd managed to make it this long was a really good question.

He looked skeptical, but relented. "Fine. Go ahead."

Tank walked towards the bar, "Thanks for your permission, Mom." He rolled his eyes - as if that insane Nazi had any say over what he did. He snatched an empty bottle off the counter. Anything that was going to be said in retort was cut off by Nikolai's womanly scream. "It's empty! Sheesh."

"It had better be." The man behind the bar had turned around to watch when the bottle was grabbed. He sounded rather menacing over that simple glass container.

The marine took the glass over to a pile of boxes sitting by the wall. Vera hadn't paid too much attention to the room, more occupied with the thoughts of the gun at her back and the new people she'd encountered.

To her right was a boarded door on a wall with loose wall paper and areas that exposed the wall's innards. At the base of the stairs she and Takeo had descended was another chalk outline. In front of her stood a couple round tables pressed against the wall and the pile of boxes, which, like the pile up in the bathroom area, had a board with an outline of the theater. The board seemed to be an exact replica, with the same light lit and all. To the left was the second stair case and the bar. At the base of this stairway was a door, this time not barricaded. Beyond the bar was a blocked doorframe which led, as all boarded halls seemed to, down to a turn leading to an unexplored area. Beside this doorframe was a soda dispenser, lit green and named "Speed Cola."

As she had been giving the room another glance over, Dempsey had placed the bottle on one of the boxes below the board. Everything was happening so quickly - the gun was a heavy weight in her hand, Rightofen had pulled his own and Vera was pretty sure he'd shoot her if she didn't get this right. Whatever _this _was.

"You've gotta shoot it-" he began to instruct before he was cut off.

"She has three shots." Silent until now, the Oriental man spoke his thoughts.

"Right. In three shots." Dempsey held up three fingers.

She nodded. She didn't really understand what he'd said, but figured she either had to shoot it three times, or she had three chances. Probably the latter. "_C'mon, you can do this. Only your life is at stake, right? No biggie." _ She to herself, but it came out more as a grimace. Sure, she'd handled a gun before, but only her family's hunting rifle, not a handgun. She attempted to recall all of her experiences with the rifle - the seemed worlds away.

The first time she went hunting her father had taken her into the woods several miles away from their house where red deer frequented. It was prime feeding grounds for them - having all the grass of the valley, the protection of the forest, and the Annoit's crops - grapes - to feed on. The two of them staked out a spot over a clearing with a water source and waited. Several hours after arriving, a fine-looking hind wandered into sight. Vera, who'd been 12 at the time managed to stay still nearly the entire time, as a result her legs were numb with a lack of blood from sitting cross-legged. She took up the gun and shifted into a kneeling position to aim. Before arrival her father had told her where to aim for the cleanest kill, so she waited for the opening. Once it came, she fired. Fire and a plume of smoke were all she saw before she tumbled backward from the recoil and unsteady legs. She landed on her back in a pile of fall leaves and twigs. The sound of gunfire reverberated in her head like a struck gong and the air stunk with the powder. Upon sitting up, she saw that not only had she missed the deer, she had blown a good-sized hole into the tree a couple yards to the left of her target. At which point she fell over again, this time with laughter.

She'd gone hunting a couple times after that with nearly the same results. She picked up a few tips, though: recoil, of course, measuring how the wind carries, accounting for gravity, and movement of the target. Being that she was indoors, a little over four feet away and her target was a bottle, she had little to worry about in those respects. All she needed be concerned about was the recoil. And her audience, that was definitely worrisome.

After a few seconds of thought, she set her left foot slightly behind and raised both her arms to eye level. Both hands firmly on the hilt - once she had put it on the barrel to steady herself, but ended up burning her hand - she steadied her aim. When the hunting long-ranged, one eye was usually closed to see straighter down the barrel, but with the handgun, both hands were necessary. It was odd, really, how different the two guns were, even when they both did the same thing.

All of this had taken place within a few seconds and now, a little less than steady, she fired. A miss - too high and too far right. The recoil was different with the pistol; instead of coming back into the shoulder, it went upward. She was able to recover before it fell from her grasp, but she flinched when she saw the upward spring of the gun. She regained her breath, which she hadn't known she'd lost and refocused.

She squeezed the trigger again. Miss. Too low. Here she was, in the middle of a battle-hardened group of post-apocolyptic soldiers and she couldn't even shoot a bottle 15 feet away. Not even to save her own life. It was a miracle she'd even survived this long. Maybe if she ran now, she could get out before they killed her or used her as zombie bait. But before Richtofen got a shot off? Unlikely, and he probably wasn't going to miss. Her only chance was this last bullet. Her last shot, in more than one sense.

Again, the silver trigger was pulled. It hit the wall.

...~...~

~...~...

Yes, it definitely hit the wall. A 9mm bullet hole was there as proof. It hit the wall directly after it shaved off the right side of the bottle. Glass shards splashed to the ground from the impact, creating a light tinkling.

Vera's arm's shook from stress and she shoved the gun, laying flat on her palms, back toward Takeo. She turned back to face the other three with her arms across her chest to keep them from shaking. She looked around, but avoided eye contact and noticed Dempsey looking rather smug and Richtofen unimpressed. Nikolai, on the other hand, hadn't been watching at all. He instead chose to fall asleep standing up, hunched over, elbow on counter, chin in hand. It looked rather uncomfortable, but he was snoring - quite loudly at that - so to each his own. But one couldn't help but wonder how the arguing earlier had upset his headache, but the gunfire hadn't.

"Welcome to the club!" The Marine cheered, once again disturbing the Russian.

"What I miss? What I miss?" He looked around, startled. He caught sight of the shattered bottle and voiced that same womanly scream from earlier.

"It was empty!" Dempsey threw his hands into the air in exasperation.

A nettled Takeo muttered something about dishonor, Russians, and alcohol.

"Fantastic. Anozer mouth to feed." Richtofen promptly ignored the bickering going on between the alcoholic and honor-driven man and reholstered his gun.

"Aww, cheer up, Doc! Atleast now we won't have to eat your God-awful cooking!" The American laughed boisterously.

"You could have cooked for yourself, idiot. It vas not like I vas shoving it down your throat," he shot back, a bit miffed at being insulted.

Nikolai suddenly stopped his conversation with Takeo and turned to the other two. "Who's shoving what down who's throat? And why wasn't Nikolai invited?" A slight pause hit the room before Dempsey keeled over laughing and Richtofen turned and angry shade of pink. Both the angry doctor and peeved Takeo began shouting obscenities at Nikolai. The Soviet and Marine continued to laugh.

Vera stood silently confused in the center of the room. Being near people again was sort of nice, if not a little terrifying. The last few weeks she had been running, scavenging, and hiding wherever she could. A few days ago she had run out of food and what little water she had left. She'd been sleep-deprived since well before that.

Any house that wasn't overrun with the living dead was used as shelter, but even then rest was rare. If sleep even had a chance to come, the dreams were haunted with glowing yellow eyes and the screams of both the living and dead. Haunted by ghosts and memories, she wasn't sure she even wanted to close her eyes.

Yeah, people are nice. Especially when they're alive.

~...~...

...~...~

**Translations:**

**None**

** Thank you to LisaMini3 and DestinyIntertwined for Faving, BlueRika for Alerting, and cookies to TheMongoose'sColt and MidnightWolf0 for the reviews! **

** To Midnight: Yeah, I figured hostility would make the most sense. The first human response to the unknown is fear and when you fear something, you're aggressive towards it. That's the way I see it, atleast. **

** So, a few questions: Vera's flashbacks, yay or nay? Was anyone out of character or the moods too intense for the scenario? Do you think Annoit is a Sue? **

** I know the chapters haven't been very long, but I'm hoping to get them longer after we get through the intro here. Also, later on the chapters should be switching points of view, so you guys won't be forced to read from Vera's eyes all the time.**

** On a side note, "Frenchman" applies to anyone who's a native of France, so it applies to women, too. **

** Thanks everyone! Please drop a review, whether it be criticizm or otherwise. ^^ **


	3. Are you ready?

**Silver's Thoughts: Okay, so, yeah… This update is super late in part because I was on vacation for a month and also in part because I'm really lazy. On the up side, it's longer than my other chapters. Hope you like it.**

** (I really should have done this sooner, but…) This is the only warning I'm giving for this fic, don't say I didn't tell you. This story may contain: Racism, Nationalism, Sexism, vulgar wording, mildly suggestive themes, violence, political views (?), and religious remarks. It's rated T for a reason, but I thought I'd put that out there.**

** Italics indicate a language other than English.**

…~~~…

~~~…~~~

After the rowdiness died down, a lively Marine turned to the newcomer. "So, where did you learn English?"

Vera churned the words in her mind, searching for the meaning. She understood the words "where" and "English" so she answered to the best of her ability. "Ehh, zhe school. I learn from two years. Hard to talk Eenglish – _Il est difficile de se rappeler ma scolarité de toutes ces années auparavant_." Two years of schooling in English didn't provide enough vocabulary for any true conversations and after years of disuse, a good amount of the information had been lost. Vera never thought there would ever be much need to speak any language but her own, but, as it turns out, she should have paid more attention in class. She decided to try a different route. "_Parlez-vous français?"_

Dempsey perked at this; French, the language of love. What was a ladies' man without knowing a few lines of French? Of course he knew some, and he was ready to show it off. But, as it were, he couldn't seem to remember some of his best lines, the few he did remember were limited to: "Where's the bathroom," "I can't find my pants," and "Let's go to my hotel room." What? It's not like the women he was wooing knew what he was saying, and if they asked he'd say he said something romantic.

As he said these out loud, both he and the Frenchman had a laugh. Nikolai seemed inclined to ask what he missed and when Dempsey repeated what he had said in English, the Soviet snorted. "It makes me wonder, Dempsey, for what occasion you learned these things."

"The chicks dig it, ya know? It doesn't matter what you're saying, as long as it sounds pretty. Plus you never know when you'll wind up in France and can't find the John."

Beyond Tank's phrases, none of them knew French. Vera had noticed the red armband Richtofen bore, but didn't want to have to rely upon that language. With all that'd happened between their two countries, it just seemed wrong. She shook her head slightly to dispel the feelings. A language was just a language, no matter what the natives of it had done to others.

With these thoughts, she turned her eyes toward the Nazi, not quite meeting his gaze. "Umm,_ I can speak some German, too_." Up until now, Richtofen had been sitting silently on the wooden barstool, isolatedly distrustful. The man reminded the Frenchman very much of her cat back on her family's farm…

When she first encountered the feline at eight years old, she would catch sight of him staring down at her from the hayloft of the barn. She climbed up to see him, but whenever she reached the top, he was nowhere in sight. She tried everything to get him to come down, from offering scraps of food and fresh milk to building a tiny house out of spare wood for him to live in. Nothing worked. It took almost a year for Vera to give up, but eventually she figured it wasn't worth it. The cat, or Cheval as she's come to call him, seemed to be doing just fine on his own, and Vera had chores and other things that needed attention; He would probably never come down, or atleast not when she was watching. So she began to ignore his watchful eyes, and day after day she simply came in and did her chores: tossing hay to the horse, slopping the pigs, and shucking grain to the chickens.

One day, as she was taking the pitchfork to the haystack, she saw him. He was sitting on top of the waist-high stack with his spring green eyes sharply focused on her and his tail flicking madly as if she'd done him some great evil. She set the fork aside without looking away, fearing he'd scamper off into the darkness again. She took a few moments to take a good look at him.

His coat, though powdered in dust from the straw, was colored like polished steel beneath moonlight. Bold tabby stripes highlighted his pure emerald irises, and well-groomed whiskers twitched periodically. Beyond all of these were his deformities. His left ear was mangled from battles previous and his right was almost completely missing. Thin scars covered his muzzle, chest, and forelegs, leaving strips of furless flesh exposed. The tip of his tail was crooked oddly, probably having been stepped on by the horse and his right flank showed bite marks from an unlucky encounter with a larger animal – probably a dog. You'd be lying if you said he was cute.

Not in the least put-off by his ragged appearance, Vera approached him tentatively with an outstretched hand, cooing nonsense. She made it a couple steps, ending a few feet from him before he began to growl a low-pitched warning. Vera dropped her hand and crouched down, waiting until he grew quiet. A few moments later, he hopped off the stack and dashed up the steps into the dark, stuffy safety of the loft.

She remembered calling after him, "_It's nice to have finally met you!" _and also clearly recalled hearing a hiss as if in response.

Now, with Richtofen narrowing his eyes in the same manner as her childhood feline, Vera would have been able to easily pick out the similarities between the two, but before she could, he responded. "_Good for you."_

She smiled wanely back at him, not really sure what to say to that. During her time in Germany, she'd picked up on a good amount of the language. Enough to be considered fluent, but she often had a difficult time trying to describe certain things.

"_Don't think for a moment I'll play translator for you." _He returned sardonically.

Vera shook her head, _"No, no, I did not expect you to. I'm just glad someone can understand me." _She stared down at her hands, fidgeting with them.

Dempsey shifted his weight irritatedly. He hated not knowing what was being said, so he broke in, "What's goin' on?"

"I refuse to translate for her." Richtofen repeated in English distastefully.

"What?" The American asked in slight consternation. Sure, he'd expected the Nazi to be resistant, but to refuse all together was a little ridiculous, especially seeing as the German's gutter-speak of a language was the only efficient means of communication with the Frenchman.

"I vas not partial to letting her shtay und iz zherefore not my problem. I vill tell you vhat she says only if it iz beneficial for me to do so, ozhervise, she iz your problem. I suggest you teach her English."

Dempsey growled angrily. "Fine, be a little bitch about it. German's a dumb language anyway."

"Child."

"Freak."

"Dumpkoff."

"Nazi."

"Thank you."

Apparently tired of the whole situation, the Russian behind the bar gathered up several bottles of browns, greens, and aged yellows as he called out, "Okay, children, Nikolai goes for nap now. Shut up." With his arms burdened with alcohol, he kneed open the divider and sauntered out as wood smacked against wood. He excited though the double doors at the base of the second staircase, kicking aside white-painted wooden shingles as he went.

Dempsey watched after him a moment before walking over to Takeo and Vera. "Yo, Tak, I've gotta show her the ropes, wanna help?" The next wave wasn't due to come until late in the night, but it'd help to get a good start in preparations.

Takeo seemed to ponder this a moment before he shook his head. "I have other duties that need attending."

Tank considered Richtofen for almost half a second, but tossed that idea out the window just as fast. He'd already said he wouldn't translate for her and the American would rather jump off a pier than ask a Nazi for help. Especially that one. Nikolai obviously didn't care at all either, having left for a nap. The Marine mentally shrugged. It wasn't like he _couldn't _show her around on his own, it'd just be confusing as shit. Hell, he hardly understood it himself, but, he resigned, he'd have to try anyway. That left him flying solo – not that he was complaining. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even seen a woman – he couldn't recall much of anything, really, but still!

With his mood lightened by the realization of his fortune, he set his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder and guided her back up the way she came. "Looks like it's just you and me."

On their way back up, Dempsey had finally come to a conclusion about the girl after having been previously deliberating: she was good looking, but not really his type. Her body was lightly filled out, small curves showing through her baggy clothes. She stood at about five and a half feet tall, nearly a head shorter than himself at 6"2', and her chopped brown-almost-red hair did her no favors. But what really caught him were her eyes. In their bright green, doe-like inflection, she looked innocent. Innocence maintained through battles with the risen dead, through the fear that seemed locked into her, and through whatever had caused that scar that split across her face. He didn't know how she still had that child-like spirit in her eyes, but it was kind of a turn-off.

He was definitely wondering about the scar, though, but before he could ask about it, he noticed they'd arrived in the lobby. He decided to hold off his curiosity until later, now was time to address a very serious problem.

"You need a gun," he pointed out rather obviously. "These two in here are the easiest to handle. Let's start you out with one of those." He took a second to question between the two weapons before ultimately deciding they would probably have to try them both out to see which worked best for her. He led the couple steps over to what he knew as the outline of an M14, a simple magazine-fed rifle with a wooden stock and an 8 round clip. "Alright, so, you just kinda… Grab it. Outta the air." He gestured uselessly with his left hand.

She blinked at him with a blank look. It took him a second to realize a couple of important things. One: she couldn't understand a word he was saying, and Two: if she was able to, he'd sound like a total nut. Damn. At that moment he almost second guessed his decision to let her stay, but reinforced he previous standpoint by sheer will. He'd figure out how to explain this, get her a weapon, and make a soldier of this Frenchman or his name wasn't Tank Dempsey!

He figured that if she couldn't understand words, she'd atleast be able to understand actions. Leading by example was the only way. He currently had two pretty decent weapons of his own – the M16 assault rifle and the Stakeout. The shotgun was the only of which he had on his person; he left his M16 back on one of the tables in the foyer.

He sighed slightly. In order to show the Frenchman how this worked, he was required to trade out one of his weapons for the new one. He weighed the value of each gun, not really wanting to trade either of them for the crappy rifle. Several moments of debating later, he ended up deciding that he'd trade the Stakeout, mostly because he'd already gone through most of the ammo.

"Okay, watch." He pointed at her with two spread fingers, and then pointed at himself to get the idea across. He unslung his shotgun and held it securely in his right hand in one, fluid, practiced movement. The quick transaction seemed to startle the Frenchman into a flinch, but she quickly recovered and remained at attention. Handling the Stakeout in his right, he held up his left hand to make sure Vera was paying attention, and then reached out to the rifle's outline. He clasped his hand around the empty air in front of the chalk, and as he did so, three things happened almost simultaneously.

First, he felt a slight, nearly indescribable draining sensation – like his energy being sapped, but with no actual loss of stamina. Next he had the weight of the weapon in his hand, the sturdy walnut stock replacing the loss of weight on his right arm from the vanishing shotgun. The heavier shotgun faded from existence at exactly the same time that the rifle appeared. The last thing that happened was a horrified scream at his right.

"_La_ _magie démoniaque! Christ me contraindre, car j'ai vu le mal!_" She began to pedal backward, trying to escape the evil that she now knew permeated this placed. She'd never been a firm believer in God, despite having been brought up with that mindset, but if there was a god, better to ask for help and have a chance at receiving it than not ask and have no chance at all.

"Calm down!" The American reached out to her, either trying to settle her or grab her, he wasn't sure, but it had the opposite effect.

As she went to take another quick step back, she tripped over the steps leading up into the next room. "_Eloigne-toi de moi!" _

The Marine advanced calmly and held out his hand in an offer to help her stand again. Instead of pacifying her, she responded to the peaceful gesture as if he were trying to hit her with a fiery stick. Quickly, she scuttled away and scrambled to get to her feet, shouting him away in French.

Frustrated, Dempsey dropped the gun to the floor and gripped the girl under the arm. He pulled her up and crushed one of her arms against his chest and restrained the other with his right hand. Almost without thinking, he clamped his left hand over her mouth to silence her.

"You're gonna wake the dead with all your screaming!" He would have laughed at his pun if he weren't so serious. She struggled against his arms, but found that she wasn't strong enough to free herself. Vera breathed heavily through her nose, panicked as she was.

The pin wasn't exactly secure, but it worked well enough. The Marine refused to budge against her wriggling, intending on waiting until the panic dissipated. He wasn't entirely sure why she freaked out. Sure, it was kinda weird seeing something appear from thin air, but did that really warrant so much screaming? He supposed he hadn't really thought the scenario though; when he first saw it happen he'd been a little shocked, but mostly in awe. It was a little strange at first, using a weapon that had seemingly solidified from the air itself. He kept thinking it would just suddenly disappear, though it didn't until he traded it out, he discovered. Now, he didn't even give it a second thought. He didn't question how it worked – they say you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

As the Frenchman stopped screaming against his palm, he watched her as calm rationality slowly began to return. Before he released her, he got an inspection of her face, and, more specifically, her scar. The healed wound must have bled pretty heavily when it was fresh. Even now the gash looked deep. It was apparent there had been no stitches to aid the healing, as the skin hadn't closed together – as a result there was an almost valley in her flesh. There were other small, white scars around her oval-shaped face, the kind you get when you're a kid – a scrape here, a scratch there. He had a few himself. Though unlike those pale lines, the one stretching from forehead to chin was still faintly pink. It must have happened sometime within the last month.

He snapped back to reality when he noticed her more even breaths. He decided to release her. Slowly, he pulled back his right arm, keeping his left over her mouth, and pressed his forefinger against his lips. "Shhh." A fairly universal signal.

At her reluctant nod, he took back his left hand as well. The Frenchman took a deep breath, glad to have control over her body again. She rubbed her hand over where the Marine had grasped to soothe the lingering feeling of his rough palm. She stared at the ground, not wanting to meet his eyes and spotted the rifle that had started this. Magic like this was unnatural and unhealthy, like a disease in nature itself. Everything about it just felt _wrong. _

Dempsey followed her focused stare, meeting the gun. He backed up a step and knelt down to pick it up. He dusted it off, not that he harbored much respect for this particular weapon, but the ideology had been ground into him from his time in the Corps. He double checked to see if the safety was on (which it was, having pulled it before he dropped it), then offered it over to the Frenchman. The weapon wouldn't fire for her even if the safety was off and the gun was primed and ready. He and Nikolai had once tried to swap their firearms, only to encounter this very problem when they went for a test fire. Although it seemed that the colt .45 didn't have the same issue, which he figured was probably because he could have done twice the damage with a low-powered potato launcher. He wasn't sure why, but rules were rules, and he had to abide by them whether he wanted to or not.

Vera took a half step back, not quite in retreat, but an obvious decline. She held up her hands and shook her head to further emphasize the rejection. The aberration of nature was a terrible, deadly thing and she would have no part in it. The magics that made this into being had no place in this world or any other. She knew she had to flee this area as soon as she could. Being affiliated with such evil – she could hardly imagine it, or how the four men lived with it day after day. Surely it would have made them go mad.

Yes, she was leaving here immediately. Only… she had nowhere else to go. No food, no water, and no other safe place. She'd have gone though that aiming trial in the foyer for nothing. If she stayed, she'd have these things and company, and protection, and, maybe, a way to get back home. She'd have to stay with these battle-worn men and their magics, if only until she was recuperated.

Dempsey offered the gun again, insisting that she take it. "C'mon. It's not gonna bite you."

She continued her refusal, "Non."

"Goddamnit. Fine." Great, so now he was stuck with a gun that he could probably put to better use as a baseball bat and a woman who seemed intent on remaining weaponless. He thought for a second about giving her his knife. He wasn't too keen on the idea, but figured that she might as well have some sort of defense. Reaching down to his left hip, he unsnapped the sheath clipped to his belt and tossed it at her so as to give her no room to object.

Reflexively she caught it, clapped between her hands. The leather sheath was worn and dirty, and apparently hadn't seen any polish in a while. Vera glanced up at the Marine, ready to return the blade, uncertain if this was a product of the magics, too.

"No, you're keeping that." He scowled and pointed at her sternly. She _was _going to keep it, or he'd superglue it to her hand. … Not that that would be really productive, but he'd feel better! They would have to go find another knife sometime, and if they were lucky, maybe a gun, too, since it didn't look like she was going to be using any of the wall-weapons anytime soon.

The Frenchman was confused at his sudden anger. Giving away his knife probably frustrated him, but it didn't look like he was going to take it back. Perhaps he gave this piece over because it wasn't magic-tainted? Or maybe he was just more willing to part with it. Maybe because it was something she could more easily use. Whatever the reason, it was now hers and the look he was giving said that she'd better keep it. She wasn't entirely sure what to do with it, but it seemed he had kept it at his side for easy access, so she figured she should do the same. She had no belt, so she clipped it though one of the loops on her jeans. The result was a little floppy, but at least it would be at her side, though she wasn't so sure how she felt about it being there.

Dempsey's scowl remained, but he nodded his head once in approval. He'd have to give some basic training on how to handle the blade, as she seemed as unsure about this as she had been about the .45. To teach hand-to-hand, he'd need some open area. The alley would probably work, but it was a bit distant if something were to happen. The stage was probably the next best thing – open area, good lighting, and defensible if it came to that. With a destination in mind, he was ready to set out.

Before he could say what they were going to do or where they were going, he was halted by Vera. The Frenchman took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly let it go. Despite the rapid series of events she'd gone though, the yawn showed how tired she really was. It had been well over a week since she'd gotten any true sleep – dozing a few minutes at a time only to be awakened by a creek of whatever house she'd been in didn't really count. Vera rubbed at her eyes to clear them of the fogginess from lack of sleep.

"Ehh, _désolé. Il a été un moment depuis que j'ai obtenu le sommeil." _She apologized in a mumble.

The American had little clue as to what she was trying to say, but it was probably something to do with her current condition. He didn't really know what she'd done up to this point to survive, but it was easy enough to tell that it was exhausting, if the bags under her eyes had anything to say about it. Her exhaustion sorta threw a wrench into the gears. You can't train in hand-to-hand when you're falling asleep at the wheel. Training would have to wait, he supposed, though it left him with less time than he liked.

"You're tired then?" He clasped his hands together and pressed them against his head and tilted to the side in mimicry of sleep.

Vera found their means of communication awkward, but effective, much like a young bird barely able to fly. It would take some time to learn. For the most part understanding what he meant, she nodded. She felt like she could sleep for days. Not that she'd really be able to. Even when out of danger, the undead were still within sight.

Vera stopped her thoughts there. There was no point in thinking like that. It only made it worse.

"Well, there's a pretty safe place just over here that I usually go to." The Marine turned to his left, walking over to where the balcony looked out over the theater and waved at the brunette to follow. As she did so, he turned left again and hopped over some rubble and dilapidated chairs. He faced a steel door, rusty and blood-splattered as it was, and twisted the door handle with a metallic screech.

Vera hopped over, too, reaching the Marine as he pulled the door open. They stepped inside the projector room, Dempsey doing a habitual sweep with his eyes to make sure there were no threats, even though his room was really the most secure out of all the others in the theater. To the right was the opening for the projector, looking down onto the large, white screen and the rest of the theater. On the wall directly in front of the two was a chalk board with mathematic equations and German words scribbled all over it and another metal door that seemed to have been kept closed. The left wall was barren except for a cork board with newspaper clippings pinned onto it in the far corner. Dempsey knew that the empty space was sometimes home to more than just stale air.

With the room cleared, the American strapped the M14 onto his back. "I put a couple cushions over there. You can use 'em since I'm not really in for a nap." The blonde gestured over to the far corner of the left wall where three maroon body-length cushions sat – two side-by-side and the third flat against the wall. "Not much in the way of pillows or a blanket, though."

The Frenchman made her way over to the make-shift bed then tuned to face the Marine. She was glad for the place to rest, but had no real way to thank him, other than a simple "Thank you" in English.

"No problem. You get some rest, I've gotta learn you how to shoot. I'll come wake you in a couple hours I guess, I have a few things to do in the meantime." He didn't wait for a response as he left, closing the door securely behind him.

It was gonna be a loooooong day…

…~~~…

~~~…~~~

Previously, in the foyer, a Nazi and an Imperial looked up from their ammo count at a scream that echoed down to their position at the liquor counter. They made no move as they listened to the scream and the several shouts, followed by silence.

"Shourd we see what happened?" The question was completely apathetic.

A pause. "Nein."

The two men returned to their task.

~~~…~~~

…~~~…

**Silver's Thoughts: Yaaaay! It's a little over twice as long as my previous chapters! 8 pages in Word. **

**Translations: (Courtesy of Google)**

**French:**

_Il est difficile de se rappeler ma scolarité de toutes ces années auparavant. _– It's hard to remember my schooling from all those years ago.

_Parlez-vous français? – _Do you speak French?

_La_ _magie démoniaque! Christ me contraindre, car j'ai vu le mal!_ – Demon magic! Christ, compel me, for I have seen evil!

_Eloigne-toi de moi! – _Stay away from me!

_Non _– No

Ehh, _désolé. Il a été un moment depuis que j'ai obtenu le sommeil. _– Ehh, sorry. It has been a while since I've gotten any sleep.

**German:**

_Dumpkoff _– idiot

** Awesome! If you found the PoV flip-flopping confusing, please tell me so I can devise a way to fix it. I still think Dempsey seems moody… Not quite OOC, but kinda moody, lol. What was everyone's favorite part? Are my attempts at humor any good?**

** Edit: Thanks to GalaxyWarrioress1234 for the story fav and. Brownies and M&M's to: P3 LadyChaos who commented, story alerted, and story faved; Mongoose'sColt for the comment, story fav, story alert, and author alert; Sockmonkey Jr who commented and faved and alerted both Frozen Fauna and myself; and Prinzessin Mia for the comments, the story alert and fav, and author fav! You guys are amazing.**

** Thanks for reading, guys. Stay strong!**


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